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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25079419">half my soul, as the poets say</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/jublis/pseuds/jublis'>jublis</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>enough light to drown in [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Check Please! (Webcomic)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Character Study, Complicated Relationships with Parents, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Internalized Homophobia, Light Angst, Love, M/M, copious poetry references, eric bittle learns to love, everyone else is just mentioned, its about growing up! getting older! leaning on a lovers shoulder! learning love is not a crime!, jack and bitty love each other so much im gonna pass out!!, let bitty and jack say fuck, one oc for storytelling purposes, suzanne and coach arent awful but they could be better</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 03:40:58</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Not Rated</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,996</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25079419</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/jublis/pseuds/jublis</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>(For a moment, his mother had looked so sad.</p><p>She already knew. Of course she did. Sometimes, it seems like Bitty was the last person to figure it out. </p><p>Still. When the words are finally out of his mouth—Mama, I love him. I love him so much.—his mother cries. And she cries the next time he calls, and the next. </p><p>His father doesn’t call at all.)</p><p> </p><p>Or, Eric Bittle, love, and everything in between.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Eric "Bitty" Bittle &amp; Richard "Coach" Bittle, Eric "Bitty" Bittle &amp; Suzanne Bittle, Eric "Bitty" Bittle/Jack Zimmermann</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>enough light to drown in [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1818844</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>160</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>half my soul, as the poets say</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>hi!! i am so so excited i love these characters so much and this is my first work in the fandom so! i hope i did it justice :D</p><p>(thank you lu for being the most enthusiastic beta ever! i love you!) </p><p>title is from the song of achilles, by madeline miller.</p><p>see y'all at the end notes!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>When Bitty is six years old, he asks his mother what being in love is. </p><p> </p><p>It takes her a few moments to answer. For the past four weeks, he’s been asking questions almost constantly. <em> Why is the sky blue? Why does the Sun hurt my eyes? Why does Daddy have a mustache and you don’t? Why is chocolate sweet? Why do you hate Aunt Judy’s jam? </em></p><p> </p><p>He thinks they’re all pretty valid questions. He doesn’t know, but his mother is <em> grown </em>, so she does. Bitty doesn’t understand why that question in particular makes her startle, and almost drop the cookie tray she’d been carrying. It’s nearly Christmas and it’s hot as ever; the yellow light from the kitchen paints the room in a golden tinge, and it’s so bright Bitty squints to watch his mother’s face as she stands against the faint sunlight streaming from the window. A bee buzzes somewhere around where they’re storing the jam recipes for Christmas dinner, and his mother watches it move with a distant look in her eyes. </p><p> </p><p>“Mama,” Bitty repeats, leaning forward on the kitchen table. “Did you hear me? I asked—”</p><p> </p><p>“I heard you, Dicky,” she says. “I heard you.”</p><p> </p><p>She dusts off her hands on her apron, sighing. There’s flour on her hair, and for a moment, she looks much older than she actually is. Something in Bitty’s chest twinges, but he doesn’t open his mouth again. Daddy’s already <em> annoyed </em>with him most of the time, and he doesn’t want Mama to make him leave her alone, too. He sits and waits, wringing his hands together. There’s a bruise on the inside of his wrist from where one of the boys at peewee football grabbed him too tight.</p><p> </p><p>His mother suddenly brightens, and sits across from him, taking both his hands in hers. “Love is <em> good </em>,” she says, the words so certain they makes Bitty’s heart beat faster. “Love when you care for someone so much that your heart hurts when you’re not together. Love is every beautiful thing you don’t know the name of already. Love is,” she stops to search for words. There’s once again a faraway look in her face, and Bitty doesn’t know what to think. “Love is when you take whatever you already are,” she says, slowly, “and make it more than it was, with them.”</p><p> </p><p>Bitty looks at their intertwined hands, considering. “Am I in love, Mama?” he asks. </p><p> </p><p>She laughs, patting his cheek. “You will be one day, Dicky,” she says. “You’ll meet a lovely girl, and you’ll be so, so in <em> love </em>with her. You’ll think there’s nothing that could be more important than her. Lord,” she stands up. “Let’s hope you don’t bring me any trouble.”</p><p> </p><p>For a moment, her expression twists into something he doesn’t recognize, her lips downturning, but it’s gone almost as fast as it came. Bitty sticks his tongue out at her playfully and she laughs, the sound rumbling in her chest. “Now, baby,” she tuts, already turning around to the oven. “Help me with this next batch. I think they’re ready.”</p><p> </p><p>(For a moment, his mother had looked so <em> sad </em>.</p><p> </p><p>She already knew. Of course she did. Sometimes, it seems like Bitty was the last person to figure it out. </p><p> </p><p>Still. When the words are finally out of his mouth—<em> Mama, I love him. I love him so much </em>.—his mother cries. And she cries the next time he calls, and the next. </p><p> </p><p>His father doesn’t call at all.)</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>… </b>
</p><p> </p><p>He still isn’t sure of the difference between loving and being in love.</p><p> </p><p>It’s an easy mistake to make. Almost too easy, in hindsight, the way Bitty can shift his perspective just a little, adjust the tone of his voice and the tilt of his mouth and the way he laughs at what the girl in front of him is saying. It’s a Halloween party, and she’s dressed as Katara, and even if Bitty wasn’t actively trying to be into her, he would’ve gone over to compliment the costume anyway. </p><p> </p><p>“I like yours too!” she says, loudly, cupping her hands in front of her mouth. Bitty doesn’t recognize the music that’s playing, but he bops his head along anyway. He didn’t—he <em> wanted </em>to dress up for this, but the date drew closer and nothing he tried made him look the exact way he wanted to, so he settled for a nice shirt and some dark jeans. He crosses his arms in front of his chest and laughs, at her kindness, at this entire situation, and the knot on the back of his throat that just won’t go away. </p><p> </p><p><em> It’s difficult </em>, he thinks, as he watches her take a long sip of her red cup. He looks at her throat when she swallows, and how her nose scrunches up at the taste, and the dark hair falling in front of her eyes. It’s difficult to not try and rush along love. He wants it so much it almost hurts, sometimes, and if only he could take her hand and kiss the side of her lips and ask her if she wants to find somewhere more private. If only he could feel those hands on him and say he is loved. If only this hunger could be killed by the only thing this world can provide him. </p><p> </p><p>But he can’t.  </p><p> </p><p>The girl takes his hand. Bitty doesn’t know her name and he doesn’t ask and she doesn’t tell him, which is a kindness he doesn’t feel old enough to understand. She takes his hand and leads him to the back porch, were the orange fairy lights are covered with fake cobwebs and empty bottles litter the ground. The moon is out and Bitty tries not to look at it. </p><p> </p><p>“Hi,” he says quietly, breath catching. He can’t look at her eyes properly, so he settles for looking somewhere directly next to them. No one’s ever been this close to him, other than his family. If Bitty leans forward just enough, they’ll be sharing the same breath. He wonders if girls taste as sweet as all the boys in school say. He smothers the part of him that isn’t too interested in finding out.</p><p> </p><p>She looks at him without saying a word, and he wonders if he should just suck it up and kiss her—but she puts a hand on his chest and pushes him away, gently. </p><p> </p><p>“No,” she says. “I can’t—I’m not,” she trails off, voice catching, and Bitty feels like he can breathe properly for the first time that night. “I can’t,” she repeats, tilting her head back to watch the sky. “I thought I could, but I can’t.”</p><p> </p><p>The wind swirls around them. Empty cups make a dry noise on the pavement, and the fairy lights sway back and forth, making Bitty’s skin seem stained with orange and yellow and shadow. He tightens his jacket around him, and the girl hugs herself to keep some warmth. If this were a different story, he’d put his own jacket over her shoulders and hold her close. Instead, they stand apart, mirror images of each other, and even though Bitty’s never seen her before, he hasn’t felt closer to anyone in years.</p><p> </p><p>“I think I can’t, either,” he says. “I think I can’t.”</p><p> </p><p>She nods, and smiles. He doesn’t. </p><p> </p><p>
  <b>. . . </b>
</p><p> </p><p>“Junior,” his father calls from the back porch. “Grab a beer, will you?”</p><p> </p><p>Summer in Madison makes Bitty feel like he’s stepped through a door directly into his teenage years, which is, to say the least, unpleasant. He didn’t know that it was possible to grow so attached to a place in so little time, but he’s missing Samwell like a heartbeat. These creaking floorboards seem too clean and shadowed for his liking. He steps through the hallway and is met with his own younger face, and no matter what he does, he flinches every single time.</p><p> </p><p><em> This is his home </em> , Bitty thinks. <em> Georgia is my home.  </em></p><p> </p><p>It might even be true. But if Bitty is being completely honest with himself, he thinks he’s been leaving this place for a long, long time. </p><p> </p><p>The back porch is small, but cozy enough. Coach sits with his legs spread on one of the beach chairs that Mama bought years ago and they never actually used for anything, taking long swigs from his beer can. He motions Bitty forward, almost absently, and Bitty sits down on another chair across from him.</p><p> </p><p>“You already have one beer, Coach,” Bitty points out. “Isn’t it a little too much? Mama will have your head.”</p><p> </p><p>Coach almost smiles. “That one’s yours, Junior,” he says. “You’re a college man, now. That’s enough to share a beer with your old man.”</p><p> </p><p><em> Oh </em>, Bitty thinks. He doesn’t know what that means, but he pops open the lid of his can and drinks from it, doing his best not to grimace. Beer has always tasted foul, but Bitty can pretend to like it for a few minutes. </p><p> </p><p>His mouth twitches involuntarily. What a parallel. </p><p> </p><p>Coach clears his throat. “So,” he says. “How’s school been treatin’ you? You forgot to call so often, we figured you must’ve been having a wild good time.”</p><p> </p><p>Bitty takes another sip of his beer and doesn’t look at his father. “It’s—good,” he says. “The team’s great. I’ve told you about some of the guys playing with me. Holster, and Ransom, and Shitty. Jack.”</p><p> </p><p>“Shitty,” Coach muses, “Lord. Your mother nearly had a stroke when you mentioned him for the first time. Any idea where the nickname came from?”</p><p> </p><p>“None,” Bitty says, laughing. “It’s kind of a running joke. Jack’s the only one on the team that was there when Shitty was a freshman, and he refuses to tell.”</p><p> </p><p>Coach smiles at him, and Bitty’s heart does triple axels in his chest. “Teammates are for life,” he says, with the voice he takes on when he gives motivational speeches to his students. “Keep them close to your heart.”</p><p> </p><p>“Will do, Coach.”</p><p> </p><p>“Now, speaking of heart,” and Lord, Bitty should’ve seen this coming, he really should. Coach sits up straighter and raises his eyebrows at him. “Any belles catch your eye? They don't even have to be southern. I’m an open-minded man.”</p><p> </p><p>There are so many things Bitty could say. Hell, he could even tell the truth. </p><p> </p><p>Instead, he laughs.</p><p> </p><p>“I was trying to catch my bearings the whole two semesters,” he says. “No much time for belles.”</p><p> </p><p>His father chuckles. “Don’t worry, Junior,” he says. “They always come along when you least expect it. It’s how your mother and I met.”</p><p> </p><p>He’s silent for a moment, and Bitty thinks about making his escape. But then Coach speaks up again, and his voice unusually quiet. “Love is complicated, son,” he says, looking to the grass in front of them, swaying with the wind. “It comes out of nowhere. You never find it twice the same way. Kinda like how lightning never strikes the ground in the same place. But it always comes.” Coach takes a final swig of his beer, and looks directly at Bitty. “It always comes.”</p><p> </p><p>Bitty swallows. “I know, Daddy,” he says. “I know.”</p><p> </p><p>Coach searches his face for something Bitty doesn’t know he’ll ever be able to offer. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “I guess you do.”</p><p> </p><p>Mama finds them there, hours later—father and son, three feet apart and yet miles away, watching the setting sun. Bitty stares at the swirling orange and red and wishes he were brave enough to tear something down.</p><p> </p><p>…</p><p> </p><p>(He falls in love without realizing it, and when he does, he almost cries laughing.</p><p> </p><p>It comes to him unbidden, in the way Jack lifts his eyebrows at him, silently asking if he’s okay after he pulls an all-nighter, and smiles, and mutters to himself in French when he thinks no one is listening, and watches history documentaries with an almost childlike enrapture.</p><p> </p><p>It comes to him in a sunny day in mid-October, in Jack’s last year. Bitty is attempting to make his own version of pumpkin spice latte, and he asks Jack to pass him the cinnamon; when Jack incredibly drops the entire thing on the ground, the cloud that covers them is almost beautiful. Jack stares at Bitty, dumbfounded, and sneezes so hard he stumbles backwards.</p><p> </p><p>Bitty looks at him and thinks, <em> I love the way you take up space. </em></p><p> </p><p>At least it doesn’t look all that weird when he laughs.)</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>. . . </b>
</p><p> </p><p>“Jack Laurent Zimmermann,” Bitty says. “If you even <em> think </em>about getting up from that couch, I’m leaving you.”</p><p> </p><p>Jack makes a face but flops back down, glaring half-heartedly at Bitty. “How do you know I moved? You’re not even looking at me.”</p><p> </p><p>Bitty opens the oven door slowly, turning off the heating and peeking inside.  “I don’t need to,” he sing-songs. “If you stay still for longer than five minutes, sweetheart, you’re ready to climb the fucking walls.”</p><p> </p><p>“Don’t say the fuck word,” Jack says. “It’s not cute.”</p><p> </p><p>Bitty closes the oven with a force that startles even himself. “You know what’s not <em> cute </em>?” he says, walking over to the counter from where he can see Jack’s face, the bruise on his cheekbone startling even from a distance. “It’s not cute when your boyfriend gets knocked out in the middle of a game that you weren’t even there to see, so you drop everything and come running even though it means you’ll be missing a week of practice, because you wouldn’t focus anyway without making sure that the person you care about more than anything is okay.”</p><p> </p><p>He says it all in a single breath, voice getting progressively louder as he goes. It’s not fair to Jack, he knows, but Lord, these past two days have been a whole trainwreck, what with the playoffs getting too close for comfort, and his mother’s texts, and of course, the injury. Bitty hasn’t even told his mother he’s in Providence, because he already knows the questions she’ll ask and he doesn’t want to answer them. </p><p> </p><p><em> I know Jack’s your friend, honey </em> , his mother would say, not unkindly, <em> but you can’t just drop your entire life to be with him. </em></p><p> </p><p><em> Mama </em> , he would answer. <em> Mama, he </em> is <em> my life.  </em></p><p> </p><p>Except he wouldn’t answer that. Not yet, not yet. Sometimes it seems like not ever.</p><p> </p><p>“Bits,” Jack says. “Bitty.”</p><p> </p><p>Bitty’s shoulders drop. He can never stay mad at Jack for too long -- his anger is like damp firewood that just won’t light, and he finds himself walking towards the couch without even making a conscious decision to not keep ranting. Jack admittedly doesn’t get up, but he opens his arms and doesn’t complain when Bitty drops his entire body weight between them, limp with exhaustion. Jack kisses the top of his head and Bitty wants to cry. </p><p> </p><p><em>Only the sun has come this close</em>, he remembers reading once. <em>Only the sun. </em></p><p> </p><p>“I’m sorry,” he mumbles into Jack’s neck. “I’m not angry at you, sweetpea, you know I’m not.”</p><p> </p><p>“You’re tired,” Jack says, tightening his arms around him. “I get it.”</p><p> </p><p>“Oh, Lord,” Bitty says, suddenly scrambling to sit up. Jack doesn’t budge, holding him across his waist, and Bitty glares at him when he flops back down. “Jack,” he says, “you’re injured. You should be resting, not dealing with my emotional breakdown. I’m <em> fine </em>.”</p><p> </p><p>Jack raises an eyebrow at him. “Pretending I even remotely believe that,” he says, “I don’t mind, Bits. I never mind when it’s you.”</p><p> </p><p>“Jack,” Bitty says.</p><p> </p><p>They haven’t said <em> it </em> . The words have almost slipped out of his mouth so many times, in early mornings when Jack is visiting, and in late night calls where it feels like they’re the only people left in the world, when Jack catches Bitty’s eye and smiles and God, Bitty can almost taste it in his mouth, slow and sweet as honey. His heart beats. <em> I love you, I love you, I love you. </em></p><p> </p><p>It’s not that he thinks Jack won’t say it back. Despite what everyone else seems to think, Bitty isn’t completely oblivious; he sees the way Jack looks at him, now that he’s allowed to, sees the softness that just isn’t there for anyone else. Bitty knows Jack loves him, in the same way he knows that the Sun goes up in the sky in the morning, and the ocean waves never stop moving. He knows. </p><p> </p><p>He just doesn’t know what to do with it. He doesn’t know where to put all this love, the catch of his breath whenever he looks at Jack and thinks, <em> I can have this </em>. As long as the words stay on the back of his throat, he can deal with them. But saying it out loud sounds almost unholy.</p><p> </p><p>He’s such a sap. But he still isn’t brave enough.</p><p> </p><p>“Jack,” he says again, instead. “Jack.”</p><p> </p><p>Jack kisses the top of his head, then his brow, then the tip of his nose, and finally, his lips. “Stay with me for a while,” he says. “I’m injured.”</p><p> </p><p>“You are <em> insufferable </em>,” Bitty grumbles, but buries his face on Jack’s chest. “I don’t know why I put up with you.”</p><p> </p><p>He closes his eyes and lets himself feel the warmth of Jack’s body, and so much time passes between this and the next time Jack speaks up, that Bitty could almost pretend he dreamt it.</p><p> </p><p><em> I think I know why. </em> A pause. <em> I think you do, too. </em></p><p> </p><p>. . . </p><p> </p><p>(Bitty doesn’t say it first.</p><p> </p><p>He doesn’t react as well as he should have. He cries and drops the plate and tries to gather the broken pieces in front of him like this is some god-awful metaphor, and Jack’s words still echo in his ears. <em> Thanks, Bits. I love you. </em></p><p> </p><p><em> Honey </em> , Bitty says. <em> Honey, I love you too. </em></p><p> </p><p>He can’t, for the life of him, figure out if that was the hardest or easiest thing he’s ever done. But Jack holds his face between his hands, and Bitty thinks maybe it doesn’t really matter.)</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>so, yeah. yeah. </p><p>if you saw that atla reference and liked it, i gently suggest you check out my atla fics ! </p><p>if not, well! comments and kudos are appreciated. if you want to yell at me, you can do that on twitter @bornfrombeauty !</p></blockquote></div></div>
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